Bubble Bubble And Trouble Poem by shimon weinroth

I live in a bubble called me,
filled with thoughts,
full of fantasies and dreams,
ballooning up and down
on the spree of free,

inflated and deflated
by the winds of mood,
whims of notions,
flying gliding, floating
in the seas and oceans of illusion

and disillusions called reality
fooling myself to believe and hope
that all is well and getting better
my bubble surges to the clouds
roams and romps amid the flowers

of Elysium fields
hear the music of humanism
and the melody, of strains
of compassion, the chord strikes,
dancing to the tune of empathy and love

hate and gods of evil
live in other bubbles
too heavy can not float
buried down below
and far away,

but they are there.
and I must be aware
not to let the bubble
of my other self
fly again